Bellona's Daughter
by Icaneatpopcorn
Summary: Reyna never forgot what the goddess Aphrodite told her years ago, one evening in Charleston. "You will not find love where you wish or where you hope. No demigod shall heal your heart." The question, then, is...mortal or god? (Set a year after the war against Gaea.)


**I**

**after the storm**

Before Camp Jupiter was blown to bits, Praetor Reyna Ramírez-Arellano was presiding over the new augur's blessing.

It was five in the evening and the sun was beginning to set behind the Berkeley Hills, casting a breathtaking orange-pink glow all over the Jupiter Optimus Maximus. It washed the monstrous marbled pillars supporting the golden dome of the temple in rose hues as well as the faces of the legionnaires, who stood and formed themselves outside the open-air pavilion. The evening breeze ruffled their hair and put color to their cheeks; they looked like regular teenagers, all two hundred of them, donning purple shirts, but their expressions were that of hard, seasoned warriors. More so was Reyna.

She stood next to the great statue of Jupiter in full Roman armor and with her cloak around her shoulders, which seemed to glow faintly from the power the Athena Parthenos had blessed it with last year. Her long black hair was pulled over one shoulder, braided with thin golden ribbons. It wasn't that she was pampering herself up, as she had repeatedly justified in her mind when the campers gave her second looks before the ceremony began. Besides, there was nothing wrong with adding ribbons. And it wasn't as if Frank Zhang wasn't dressed up himself.

He had always been cute in his own Frank way, but ever since his father blessed him, Reyna couldn't help but appraise how tall he had gotten, and how he had become leaner, muscular. His skin was sun-kissed from his extensive training since the war against Gaea ended. Today would be the first time he wore his armor in front of such great a crowd, since he usually settled for a clean Camp Jupiter shirt and modest cloak of his own in senate meetings. He almost resembled the god Mars: warlike and handsome, firm and sure as he stood on the other side of the statue of Jupiter.

The new augur was Julian Parker, a son of Apollo. He was only thirteen-years-old, but to Reyna he seemed much older than that, kneeling on one leg in the center of the temple, his pale gray eyes set on the marbled floors. The floors were pitch-black marble cracked with golden lines and streams, spreading out in every direction, a lightning storm on the ground, terrifying and beautiful. It looked as if it were ready to swallow Julian's boyish frame. An ivory toga overlapped his camp shirt, its golden belts anchoring his knife, gleaming Imperial Gold. His kneeling stature reminded Reyna of Octavian's ceremony, which she hadn't seen personally, but through a photograph someone took years ago.

Octavian was given proper burial rites despite the absence of his body. But it was only that: a burial to honor someone who had served the legion for so long, even if he ended up a traitor. Though they placed the traditional daguerreotype of Apollo on his burial spot (which was clumsily crafted in itself), the consuls vetoed against giving him the legion's token—a fine little badge of gold carved into an eagle with the Roman numerals XII on its sculpted feather bosom, referring to the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. A legionnaire's name would be carved below in tiny letters. According to the senators, though Octavian was augur for as long as they could remember, in the end he did the legion more disservice than service. Let him have his daguerreotype, one said, because he cannot choose his lineage. But he will not have the token, for there is choice in actions, and he chose to wreak havoc on his own people because of selfishness.

"He is Roman by birth," the senator continued, "but not by character or principle."

Reyna had never liked Octavian, but she didn't hate him, exactly. She was wary of his temper and the unreadable gleam in his blue eyes. His scrupulousness (bordering on obsessiveness) aside, he played an important role in sharpening Reyna's wits and judgment. She had learned to guard herself against him and eventually see past his quick assumptions. Octavian may not be acknowledged as a Child of Rome, but she would never forget him.

Young Julian Parker was different. He wasn't pale and gaunt like his predecessor; he had an almost athletic build that would develop into a warrior's body, as he grew older. Sometimes he felt unnerving, but that was due to the fact that his pale eyes seemed to see beyond regular things, beyond even the most powerful projections of the Mist. He even had the features of a Roman statue—sharp cheekbones, black locks, and a perfect nose.

Which was why other than the two hundred campers standing perfectly still around the outside of the Jupiter Optimus Maximus, about forty or more nymphs lingered dreamily in the background.

"We are here today to commemorate the dawn of our new augur," Reyna began. Her voice echoed loudly in the solemn silence of the temple. Around her, there was no sign of movement. "Julian Parker, Son of Apollo, raise your head and face your witnesses."

He did as he was told. Sighs of admiration gently danced with the steady winds of the evening. Reyna suppressed the urge to sigh.

"Do you, Child of Rome, swear loyalty to the cause of your legion and its people, to use your abilities to its extent when needed and is required of you?" Frank asked, voice clear and solid.

"I do," Julian said.

"Do you, Son of Apollo, swear by your blood to use your gifts for peace and for the greater cause, to supply and guide with the truth, and to maintain the tasking values of mediator among god, half-mortals, mortals, and creatures?"

"I do."

Frank crossed the floor to where Julian knelt. He stood in front of him, the sheen of his armor reflecting on the young boy's face. He spoke.

"We now crown you with the laurel wreath, as signifier of your vows and testimony to your responsibilities."

The eldest senator went up the temple steps. In his hands he held a purple pillow with the laurel wreath poised on top. It was rich green in color, its leaves preserved through time and without even the slightest sign of rotting. It was simple in design, but no doubt that it radiated a grieve promise.

Frank lifted the wreath gently. His arms hovered just above Julian's head. "By your oaths we give to you the role you chose, understanding with it its terms and requirements. We give to you as well our prayers, gratitude, and blessing for your future guidance. For in return, we promise not to receive your talents in vain. The gods and everyone present today are witnesses to this agreement."

Frank placed the wreath on Julian's head as the stars began to dot the crimson and violet sky. Thunder rolled in the distance. _The gods' assent_, Reyna thought with relief.

"Rise," Frank told the young boy.

It was Reyna's turn. She walked towards the pair, assuming her position just farther off, Frank following suit but on the other side, so that Julian was standing in between them. Both praetors turned around to face the spectators. It was time to clarify and to remind.

"Let it be known that on the ninth of February we have marked the newest addition to the Council of Rome and to the glorious line of the god of prophets," Reyna said. "Here we stand witnesses to the promise and vows of this young man to guide us in our endeavors, be it for battle or for truth and wisdom in the course of our lives, as well as to uphold the honesty, discipline, and unswerving loyalty his position demands from both his birthright and choice to serve. May he use his gifts and talents for the betterment of his people and the gods, to whom he owes, and not stray away, for this is a great service entrusted only to those who understand the tragedies and delights of life." She paused and swept a meaningful glance at each of the audience. "_Ave_, his and our rise! _Ave, _Julian Parker, Son of Apollo, Speaker of Wisdom, Augur of Rome!"

"_Ave!_" Everyone cried, loud like battle declarations, loud like the joys of victory. Campers held out their weapons in salute. Rounds of applause from the nymphs—and some of the citizens of New Rome who had decided to attend—broke out, and some started hooting. Reyna couldn't help but crack a smile.

.

Dinner was more lavish than usual, as it always was every feast day. The mess hall was loud with merry campers. The night turned out to be cold and windy, sending the colorful banners in the hall flapping harshly against tall pillars, slapping and engulfing those who were walking and mingling around—which were a lot—and at some point as Centurion Dakota opened his mouth to take a big bite of his pie, a red banner swung in his direction, smacking him and staining the bottom half of his face with plum filling. The Lares themselves did not hold back. To Reyna's amusement they played and messed around with campers as they served food, gliding past rows and rows of low couches and tables, pretending to set a dish in front of them only to grab it away before the campers could gather their utensils. The crestfallen looks of the campers were priceless.

Beside her, Jason laughed. The breeze caught his blonde hair, sweeping strands over the side of his face. He had arrived right after the new augur's ceremony, when people began congratulating Julian, squeezing through the crowding throng for his turn. He had stood out wearing not the colors of the Greek or Roman camp, but in a neat white button-down shirt. In the past year, whenever Jason would visit Camp Jupiter, he always wore the color white. Reyna assumed he did the same thing whenever he came back to Camp Half-Blood. She supposed he did it to respect the camps he alternated, to show neutrality. It was only on the following days of his stay that he would don the camp's (whether Greek or Roman, depending where he was) shirt.

"How long will you be staying, Pontifex?" Reyna asked him now, keeping a straight face.

"I'll be staying for around a week and a half. And don't call me that; even if I basically act like the priest, alternating and all, I haven't had any ceremony."

Being the particular person he was, Jason made sure he spent equal amounts of his time in either camp. Which was six months each. He was _that _particular, but the months themselves were irregular, so she had gotten used to his random appearances over the course of the past year.

"It's pretty hard not to," she mused. "You have always displayed dedication in your duties, but it's one thing to see you as praetor and another to see you acting as ambassador." She crinkled her nose exaggeratingly. "And it's a whole new thing to try to get accustomed to seeing you wear glasses."

Jason played with them now, tipping them over his face: up, down, up, down. "I'm still dashing."

"Of course you are," Reyna agreed. There was nothing awkward between them. Sure, though she and Piper McLean had gotten close over the last year, things had been somehow awkward with Jason. But it was more due to the fact that he had kept looking at her like a confused dog the week after Gaea's mess, as if he needed to hear from herself if she had forgiven him for leading her on. So she had. And she was completely fine now, she liked Piper, was even honored to call her one of her close friends. Piper understood her, not just because she was a child of Aphrodite, but simply because she knew the raw parts of Reyna that Reyna herself didn't know she had.

Something in Reyna's mind sparked. A memory. A sunset walk. To her shame—which she didn't feel until after—she pushed the memory away, pushed it down the deepest recesses of her brain.

"Are you okay?" Jason's voice was alarmed. "You seem pale."

"What? Oh, I'm fine. It's nothing. It's just really cold," she lied. She wished he averted his blue eyes from her face, which were a thousand times more analyzing than ever. "How are you, by the way, in Camp Half-Blood?"

She let herself be swept by his stories, which were surprisingly detailed, his narratives colorful and precise. She could feel the love he felt for his other home as he spoke of the training games he participated in, and the day the Stoll twins forced him to prank an Ares kid during mountain-climbing lessons (Reyna was incredulous at this tale), and the ruckus that occurred in the Big House, when Seymour the leopard head fell from its nails on the wall and onto the floor, hopping crazily after stray mice. He was telling the story about Percy Jackson accidentally walking in on Gleeson Hedge and Mellie "getting ready to get it on" when Frank appeared in front of them, Hazel Levesque beside him.

"What?" Frank blubbered, obviously overhearing the phrase Jason had said. Hazel's face was pink and she fanned at it absentmindedly, suddenly interested at the grapes on the table. Reyna was grinning from ear to ear.

And that was when the small spark in the sky caught her attention. Before she could stand up, the table screeching loudly against the floors, the sound of copper mugs on top crashing against the surface, toppling plates and sending fruits rolling down; before she could so much as shout for everyone in the mess hall to take cover, the blinding streak of light slashed at the dark night sky, disappearing abruptly. Gone just like that. The mess hall was silent, not because they had seen the streak of light that she had seen, but because she was standing, everything around her a discarded chaos. An apple stopped its rolling by the foot of a camper. The campers looked terrified, alarmed, as to what could possibly drive their praetor to such a violent reaction.

Their answer came.

In the distance, so very far away yet close to them, perhaps just the whole length of the _via praetoria_, a great and searing light burst and flared like a dome of brightness in the blackness of the night, sucking the air, deafening everyone's ears by the complete lack of sound in their surroundings. Reyna caught the pure confounded looks of the legionnaires and Lares, each one of them staring directly ahead, speechless at the terrifying beauty of the explosion. And then quickly, without any warning, the burst of light rippled in the distance, giant waves of static visible from the mess hall, and suddenly tendrils of the brightest red color snaked the earthen ground of Camp Jupiter, earth itself cracking and unpeeling and flying off, smashing and smashing land. The monstrous plumes of fire and smoke charged just behind, a conflagration of gold and white, gaining and gaining momentum as they were mere moments from the crossroads of the _via praetoria_.

Reyna didn't think. She ran and ran as quickly as she could, lungs burning, legs straining, breaking through the Decumenian Gate, stopping just outside as she crouched and pulled up her cloak, stretching both of her arms, hoping to serve as a shield for the second time.


End file.
